Papa’s Box

Papa’s Box

Mandated for centuries a plain pine box

raw wood unadorned slipping easily

into the earth from whence he came

But Papa loved mahogany

spent lemon scented Sundays

oiling the whirls in the towering breakfront

the cornered Victrola on its own fringed carpet,

the twin side-tables at which he knelt to polish each

claw footed toe in turn with his white cheesecloth

and soft sable mustache brushes

In the soft late afternoon Sunday light

glowing golden he’d smile at the gentle shimmered

sheen of his burnished mahogany

and so – when it was time – there in place

of that mandated raw pine was Papa slipped

into the earth in solid mahogany shining

as his smile lowered into the soft earth of

that final Sunday a scent of lemon oil drifted

a filament of pure white cheesecloth lifted into the air 

*scissors and spackle 8-23-12)